


Poisonous

by Idea Turnstile (jatty)



Category: Pierce the Veil
Genre: Date Rape Drug/Roofies, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-27
Updated: 2016-08-27
Packaged: 2018-08-11 09:57:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7886650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jatty/pseuds/Idea%20Turnstile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I wish it didn’t have to be like this. </p>
<p>I can’t stand to see him hurting, but he hasn’t given me any other <i>choice.</i> I’ve tried and I’ve tried to win his attention, his affection, but he’s clueless. He never notices or realizes… Or he doesn’t want to. </p>
<p>It's okay, though. I have a plan. A way that works—every time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Poisonous

**Author's Note:**

> Imagining that underneath all of Jaime's sweet smiles and fluff is an entitled, shameless monster.

I wish it didn’t have to be like this. 

I can’t stand to see him hurting, but he hasn’t given me any other _choice._ I’ve tried and I’ve tried to win his attention, his affection, but he’s clueless. He never notices or realizes… Or he doesn’t want to. 

It's okay, though. I have a plan. A way that works—every time.

Every night it’s the same old thing. A different stage, a different crowd, a different set list, but the same old theatrics again and again. The same old song and dance.

He looks at me, I look at him. He _smiles_ at me, but it doesn’t _mean_ anything. Not to him anyway. To me, it means the world. 

What I wouldn’t give to have him smile at me like that all the time, not just when we’re on stage. I try and I try to get his attention when we’re alone together or if we all go out together in a group, but he just doesn’t pick up on it. He doesn’t notice me or appreciate how hard I try to catch his eye for one minute—just to be part of what makes him smile in the way that makes my knees go weak.

I wish it didn’t have to be like this…

But the timing is just too perfect to pass it up again. He’s finally started bouncing back from the last time and I can’t let him slip away. 

After our show we hit the club. It’s a hotel night and our temporary home is just a few blocks up the street. Mike disappears with a girl almost immediately, Tony is hiding his face inside the mouth of a cup at the bar while he texts his girlfriend, leaving me and Vic alone together.

I buy him a shot at the bar and he buys his own cocktail, downing it in a matter of minutes before he decides it’s time to go on the prowl. I follow after him, bringing him drinks and more drinks—questioning his manhood every time he tells me he’s getting too wasted to take another shot.

Mike says he’s leaving at around one in the morning, holding some strange chick’s hand—a different girl from the one he’d had when he first came in. Shortly after, Tony says he’s going back to the hotel because he’s tired and bored. Vic wants to leave when Tony does, but I coax him into one last drink.

He seems reluctant to swallow the cocktail I bring him, making my heart start to pound the way it does every time he holds that final glass to his lips. Is tonight going to be the night he realizes, I wonder.

But it’s not. Just like the four times before. He doesn’t notice anything is off, already loaded beyond belief.

The bar closes at three and I hold Vic up by his shoulders as I walk him back to our hotel. Tony hears us in the hallway and comes out to see what’s going on. Mike’s still out, he says, and he’s worried he won’t make it back before the bus leaves tomorrow morning.

All his pointless talk starts making me anxious. I want Vic in our room before anyone notices that there’s something wrong with him besides the alcohol alone and Tony is stalling us—because now Vic is worried about Mike and wants to call him, but his speech is so slurred that he can barely form sentences. 

I tell him this and let him know that Mike will be fine—he’s got a girl for the night and he won’t answer even if Vic does call. With that I lead him into our room, not giving Tony any real closure before shutting the door in his face and taking Vic over to one of the beds in our room. 

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Vic says as I lay him down on the mattress.

“You’ll be fine,” I tell him as I take off his shoes for him.

“I feel fucking sick,” Vic says again.

“You’re going to be fine. I’ll get you some water,” I tell him, trying to hide how panicky that makes me. If he throws up the drugs, they’re not going to work right. I bought him too many shots, but the last time he wasn’t nearly drunk enough and I couldn’t risk that happening again.

I get him a cup of water like I said and he drinks all of it before rolling over in the bed and whining that he’s going to be sick. I refill the cup, then sit beside him on the bed and rub his back. He whines nonstop until I coax him into taking another drink, and while he’s pacified with the small plastic cup, I go to the minibar beneath the television. There’s nothing good, but I take out a little bottle of off-brand whiskey and tiny bottle of flavored rum. 

Vic finishes his water and starts whining again. He’s trying to get up from the bed but the alcohol in his system is fighting him—the drugs probably aren’t helping either. I feel so sorry for him as I watch him struggle.

He needs the bathroom he says, so I help him he get there—terrified with every step that he’s just going to throw up the drugs and pass out. It had happened that way twice and it’s just not the same when he’s unconscious. I can’t tell if he’s alright when he’s passed out beneath me.

I help him keep his balance as he takes a piss, then hold his hair for him when he falls to his knees and starts gagging. Nothing comes up, so I give him more water after he’s washed his hands and laid back down.

“Thank you,” he slurs at me, over and over as his body goes limp against the mattress, the cup of water falling out of his hand and soaking the bedsheets. “Let’s not tell Mike about this. Okay? He’ll think I’m pathetic. Am I pathetic?”

“No,” I tell him, reaching down and brushing away the strands of hair he’s got sticking to his face. “That’s the very last thing you are. You’re so perfect, Vic. I always thought you were perfect.”

He stares at me like he does every time I make this confession. He looks happy for a moment, then his eyes start to get a little wide and he turns his face away. He wants more water he says, and I get it for him. He thanks me, but he’s looking at me anxiously again. He knows something is wrong and I hate that as soon as I admit my affection for him, he does this. He gets scared of me and shies away.

That’s why I slip him the pills.

Again, I wish it didn’t have to be this way. I wish he wouldn’t fight me. I wish we could just be together… I love him more than that world, but I just can’t stand it anymore. He’s too close on tour. He’s too tempting. I can’t help myself. 

I watch him fumble around on the mattress for a while longer, drinking slow sips from the little bottle of rum as I talk myself up. It’ll go better than it did the last time, I tell myself. He won’t fight as hard this time because he can barely use his arms and legs. 

I go to him when he finally gets quiet and roll him onto his back. He whines at me, uncomfortable and confused, as I start to undress him. I can see the gears turning behind his eyes as he tries to make sense of what’s happening. He keeps trying to squirm away from me, but his body is too lethargic to obey him.

I get him down to his underwear before I undress myself, the bottle of rum finished—my last shot of liquid courage. It’s the only way to keep myself from backing out. I hate myself for this, but I hate myself more when I resist. 

Vic is starting to make awful sounds as his foggy mind starts piecing things together. When I leave the bedside to grab the lubricant from my luggage, he starts trying to escape. He does all he can to get up, but only succeeds in moving a few inches closer to the edge of the bed, his entire body resisting his every effort.

“Hush,” I tell him as I come back over to his side. I sit next to him on the bed and stroke his hair with one hand, wishing it could soothe him—wishing he could just _want_ my touch for once. “It won’t hurt. I promise.”

I lean down and kiss him on the mouth, tasting the mixed liquors on his tongue as he screams into our kiss. 

He wails when I break off the kiss, his voice sounding anything but beautiful when he’s pained like this. I don’t want to hurt him, but I just can’t _help it._ I love him. I love him so much and I wish he could just understand that.

I wish it didn’t have to be this way…

I have to keep one hand over his mouth as I finger him. He manages to form pleas for help, but my palm keeps them muffled just enough to be incomprehensible if someone were to hear through the walls. His eyes show nothing but fear and pain, but his body is limp underneath me. He keeps trying to lift his arms, but they lay useless at his sides. He’s barely able to twitch his fingers let alone push me away. 

God, I wish he could hold me—I wish he would pull me closer when we come together like this—but it’ll never happen. The most he does is call for help, usually from Mike. 

Tonight is no different. 

He lets out an unflattering squeal when I press inside, his eyes squeezing shut even though it can’t possibly hurt with how much I’ve prepped him. Even if he doesn’t remember in the morning, it’s not my goal to hurt him. It’s my dream that he’ll enjoy himself, that his mind will relax enough to let him enjoy what I do to him. I always prep him for as long as I can, until my fingers move easily inside him. He starts to cry, but there’s no way it hurts him as I push my way further and further past his rim. 

His breath is coming out in hot, sharp pants against my palm. His lips are so wet with spit from how much noise he’s been making, making it harder for my hand to stay in place over his mouth as he starts tossing his head from side to side. He’s so tight—no one else ever gets him this way to wear him down—and I can’t help but moan, even as he cries into my hand. 

He screams, but his body gives no resistance as I pull back slowly, savoring every small sensation before thrusting back into his slick heat. I want to touch him so badly, but I know if I move my hand that he’s going to scream. The pills are supposed to keep him quiet and compliant, but they never work—they’re never strong enough no matter how much liquor I pour down his throat before I dose him. 

Maybe if I gave him the full dose he’d be quiet, but I’ve done that before and he just stares right through me. He doesn’t see me and that’s all I want in the world. I want him to _see_ me, know that I’m doing this because I love him and need him.

I just want to hold him while we make love, but he screams and screams and thrashes his head back and forth. I try to be as gentle as I can, but it makes no difference in his reactions. He never moans for me, and if he comes close it’s a noise of fear.

I keep my thrusts as gentle as possible for the first few moments, trying to help Vic stay calm. He stops screaming for a moment and I take my hand away from his mouth in order to kiss him. His lips are so soft, but wet with spit and slime from his crying. 

“I love you,” I tell him. 

He just shakes his head and whines, his voice shrill as I press all the way inside again. Sometimes I wonder if I’m too large for him because his body is so tiny under mine and he always shudders when I’m in as far as I can go. Sometimes I tell myself he’s shaking with pleasure, that I’ve found his spot and he likes it but he’s too nervous to let loose and enjoy himself. Sometimes I tell myself he just likes to scream—that it’s not out of fear or pain or hate. 

I make my thrusts harder, extracting shrill little cries from him but they’re just soft enough that I don’t have to cover his mouth. I kiss him again and let my free hand trail down between our bodies and grasp him. 

He’s soft, and no matter how much I massage his length in my hand he never stiffens. I try and I try—I even try kissing his neck this time—but it does no good. He sobs and then he starts screaming again after I’ve left a hickey on his throat. 

I try to shush him—I try telling him that it’ll feel good if he just lets himself enjoy it—but nothing works and I have to cover his mouth again. I can’t help that he’s started to make me frustrated. All I want is for him to shut up and listen to me, but he won’t behave—he won’t even give me a chance. 

I make my thrusts harder, showing him what it feels like when it’s _meant_ to hurt. His big eyes go even wider and the tears start coming from them so fast. I can’t help but feel guilty. I tell him I’m sorry and I kiss his face, pressing in as far as I can and staying still so he can recover. 

I don’t want to hurt him. I _don’t._ Why does he always make me do this?

Once his screaming dies down, I take my hand away from his mouth and kiss him. He’s muttering to himself under his breath, whimpering for help so quietly I can barely hear over the groans of the mattress as I draw my hips back again.

He’s starting to pass out, I realize. My heart sinks in my chest and lean down to kiss him again—savoring it while he’s still awake. I snap my hips forward, driving my length in as quickly as I can. I won’t be able to finish if he passes out on me now. I need him to look at me. I need him to _know._

I bite his bottom lip until I taste coppery blood and he’s sobbing again, his eyes half-open and staring at me over top of him. His face is so flushed, so wet with tears and spit, but he’s never looked more beautiful to me. 

With his eyes on me, I come undone. I release inside of him, something I’ve never dared before, and bury my face in his neck as I rock my hips gently back and forth against his thighs—taking in every little sensation I can. His hole is spasming around me, getting tighter and tighter before relaxing enough to let me slowly pull out. 

I watch as my seed slowly trickles out of him, staining the bedding along with a few drops of blood. 

He cries as I look at him, cries when I kiss him and thank him and tell him I love him. He cries for his brother—calls Mike’s name over and over though his voice is too quiet for anyone else to hear. 

“You were so good,” I tell him, speaking over top his mumbled, sleepy pleas. “I love you so much.”

He squeezes his eyes shut and cries, “Mike, it was Jaime. It’s Jaime. He does this.” Explaining everything to a person who isn’t even in the room…

I sigh and leave the bed, making sure both of our phones are away from his hands before I go into the bathroom and wash off. 

I hate myself the most once it’s over. I’d give anything for us to be together in some other way. I don’t like watching him cry. I don’t like spending the next few days riddled with such terrible anxiety I can barely breathe. What if he remembers? What if he talks? Especially this time. Especially now that I left evidence behind…

But he never remembers. That’s what the pills are for. Tomorrow morning he’ll wake up sore and alone and scared. For weeks he’ll cling to us, not wanting to be by himself in fear that his “attacker” might find him again. Those few times he works up the courage to confess, he doesn’t understand why no one takes him seriously when he says what he thinks happened to him.

It’s all because of me.

By the time I get out of the shower, Vic is unconscious. I place his phone next to him on the bed and write a note on the little pad of paper the hotel provides on the desk. 

_Thanks for a great time,_ I write in a style that looks nothing like mine. I add a smiley face at the bottom of the page and a heart, then set both the pad and pen back down and get dressed. I wrap Vic up in the blankets and make sure he’s sleeping on his side before I leave the room and knock on Tony’s door. 

Mike is out with that strange girl, making my plan that much easier this time.

“What the hell do you want? It’s four in the morning,” Tony grumbles, rubbing his eyes. “I thought you were Mike. I think he’s locked out of the hotel.”

I ignore his concerns about Mike for the second time tonight and tell him that Vic picked up some guy at the hotel bar and wants me out of the room.

“Again?” Tony asks, backing up and letting me in the room. “This is like the sixth time… Is the bar even still open?” 

“I don’t know. Tomorrow will be fun, though,” I say.

“I wonder what story he’ll have this time,” Tony says as he climbs back into his hotel bed, too exhausted to ask any more questions. He’s not the one I worry about piecing things together. The only person I’m afraid of is Mike, but he’s out of the picture tonight and by the time he returns, Vic won’t even remember our concert.

“Do you ever wonder if it’s true?” I ask after the lights are off and I’m lying under the covers of what’s meant to be Mike’s bed.

“Do I ever wonder if _what’s_ true?” Tony asks irritably. He wants to sleep. He’s not concerned at all about Vic who will spend all morning in throes of anxiety, telling us all that he thinks he’s been drugged and someone took advantage of him. 

“You know, if these guys do drug him. At least some of them.”

“Well… Well, yeah. I believed him the first time, but six times? Come on. He’d have to have the worst luck of anyone in the world. Why? Do you believe him?”

“I don’t know… Something seemed off about this last guy.”

“If you’re worried about him, why don’t you go check on him?” Tony asks. He sounds concerned, but he doesn’t get up to go check on Vic and neither do I. 

No one does.


End file.
